Forgetting Francesca

Chapter 7

"Listen, I like you. I've liked you for—no—that won't work." I was pacing in front of my mirror, refusing to look at myself, see the nervous wreck of a teenage girl.

I waved my hands around while I tried to gather my thoughts together. Francesca was completely chill with me being lesbian, but I wasn't sure if she was okay with me liking her.

Oh boy.

I refused to embarrass myself, she already knew I was a weirdo, I did not want her to see how nervous I really was. I didn't feel like showing her what an awkward mess I was, or deal with her knowing how scattered she really made me feel. I always said she made sense, which is what she wanted to hear, and she did. For most people. She always confused me.

Francesca rang at that moment, the special ringtone I had for her singing out across my room. I scrambled to pick up my phone, waited five seconds, and then answered. "Hey," I said, my voice high pitched. I silently cursed myself for the awkward answer, clenching my jaw.

I immediately relaxed when she laughed and responded with her own awkward hello.

"What's up," I said, playing off the casual conversation we always had. She explained that she was painting her nails (This was her cheerleader/girly girl phase) and listening to Bon Iver and Justin Bieber on a Youtube playlist (an odd concoction of music styles if you ask me). I wasn't doing anything, so I made up a story on how I was writing a song. Francesca's interest peaked.

"What's it about?" Francesca asked, her voice smooth. She was good at speaking, always had been.

"I, uh, I don't know yet." said I in all honesty. She chuckled, and offered her help, which I took gratefully.

Francey showed up at my house ten minutes later, a stack of paper and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her hair was still long at this point, always tucked behind her ears or held up in a half-up style.

She didn't greet me, but her eyes lit up in a certain way that certainly made me speechless, so I said nothing back. "Let's get started!" said she when she had situated herself on my bed. I sat on my chair, facing her. I only noticed then that Francey was clasping her hands, her eyes flicking down to my hands and back up again, and then she shook her head slightly. As if she was shaking away a thought. My face heated up, and I desperately wanted to explore whatever thought she just had, whatever caused her to look at my hands like that for that fraction of a second.

Was I overthinking this? Probably.

There it was again, that little glance down. I shook my head at her, and broke the silence. "So, what should we write about?"

"Um, butterflies? Love? Unrequited love?" A little head tilt at that, and a glance at my hands, then at hers.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

She wanted to hold my hand. I stretched out my hand to her and clasped hers. It was the first time I noticed the small mole at the bottom of her wrist. She was looking at me when I finally got the guts to stop inspecting our conjoined hands, and our eyes met momentarily before we glanced hastily away.

"It seems like something's different." I said at last, looking at her. Her eyes widened by a fraction, and she quickly looked away with a shaky sigh that seemed too nervous to be casual.

"Let's start with that then," said Francesca quietly, heat filling her face as she tightened her grip on me. I nodded, refusing to let go. Another thick silence filled the room.

"Okay, I need to admit something," I said finally, meeting her eyes earnestly. She blinked, her grip loosening.

Oh my god.

What was I doing?

I was going to ruin this friendship, I was going to wreck everything ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

"I like you!" I blurted, closing my eyes as I felt her hands drop away from mine. I kept my eyes closed and continued on. "More than a friend, and I'm sorry and I feel so stupid  for liking you like this and-"

But Francesca said hey very softly, and I dared to open my eyes to look at her. She was smiling and blushing.

"I'm too young date, Marcy, but I like you too and you don't have to worry about feeling stupid. We can feel stupid together. For a year we'll stay friends, and I promise I'll ask you out on the most romantic date on the planet. Okay?"

I nodded, covering my hands with my face and giggling. I confessed to her that I was absolutely terrified of how I felt. She responded with leaning forward and kissing my cheek. I was in deep shit with this girl, I always was.

On February 14th in 8th grade, Francesca got up in front of the class and asked me out with a poem. It was anything if not romantic. We happened to have a dance later that week and she asked me in front of people and I swear I could have died from happiness.

That year, that one year of our relationship, that was the happiest year of my life. I didn't want to believe that she stopped liking me in grade nine, that dating me wasn't the same as it used to be. I almost convinced myself that it wasn't true, but she was pulling away and I had to face it someday. When she told me, I didn't let my sadness show. I told my mom with a casual air, and she had nodded solemnly. I have to say, I was really good at brushing off the broken heart I harboured. I even convinced myself for a while, but I knew, deep down, that I wasn't over her. I still could feel the little pecks she gave me, the way she held my hand and how her hands always slid around my hips when we cuddled, or even how soft her hair was.

Our break-up was obviously a sore spot for me. I only let myself think about what had happened two days after, on the lazy Sunday after. For those two days, I pushed everything away until I was too broken to not notice it. On that Sunday, I finally cried for what seemed like hours until my throat was sore.

~~~~

"We need to talk," Francesca said, wringing her pale hands. I was distracted, so I immediately reached for her hand, looking at her straight-on with a tentative smile. It hung limp in mine, stiff against the habit of curling her fingers.

Something was wrong.

I dropped my hand and held it close to my chest, cradling it like I would with an injured bird. I knew that something was happening. I could feel the beginning of my heart breaking.

"I don't feel the same way, anymore." she said, and I could tell from the way that she stood—tall, shoulders hunched but straight back—that while she was scared, she was sure. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Marcy. You have no idea—"

I didn't want to hear this. "No," I said, straightened my spine and dared to raise myself up to my full height. "Don't be sorry." I was trying not to break. I owed her that much.

My sadness, the heartbreak that would cripple me, it was worth her been happy. Her being comfortable. It was all worth it. And if she never talked to me again, if she found a girlfriend or a boyfriend in the coming years, I wouldn't intervene. I wouldn't let my guard falling around her affect our friendship, or my inability to look at her with friendship in my heart instead of love. Francesca held herself together so well, why couldn't I? I held my hand out to her, which she took with a smile. I ignored how soft her hand was.

"Friends?"

"Definitely."

And we shook on it.